Caesura
by JustlikeWater
Summary: The truth is that the world keeps turning. And that is perhaps the most tragic truth of all. [Post-Reichenbach] [John POV]


**A/N: I missed you all so much! I know the premise of this story is quite old and perhaps redundant, but it was a good way for me to dust off my keyboard and get back into the swing of writing, so I hope you all like it nonetheless :)**

 **I know I've been gone for a while, so if you'd like to know a bit about what's been going on, check out the end notes!**

 **…**

 **Side note: To put it simply, season four was a mess. An absolute mess. Of course, there were bits that I enjoyed — BAMF Hudson, Benedict's superb acting, Eurus's character, the explanation of Redbeard, and those three seconds of fluffy Parentlock — but the way it was all strung together (and the fact that SO many things were ignored and left as loose ends, namely Johnlock) was extremely unsatisfying. Also, what the HELL happened to John's character? And why did Molly's feelings need to be abused like that? Since when are Sherlock and Mary randomly BFFs, and why the BLOODY HELL did she narrate the closing scenes? *huffs angrily***

 **Anyway. Point is, I do plan on writing new stories based on season four, so if you have any prompts or ideas you'd like me to explore, tell me in the comments! I'm thinking of doing either a series of angsty & lighthearted one shots or going all out and rewriting season 4 (kind of joking about the latter, but also kind of serious). Let me know! **

**…**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

At first, John assumes the pain will kill him. When he sits in his chair and stares at the empty seat across from him, he feels like his mind is scrambling, bending, and breaking with grief. Nothing is important, now. A huge shadow has shrouded his life and blocked any light from ever creeping in. He guesses that he'll slip into depression and end up floating drearily through the rest of his days, lost and gloomy without Sherlock's sweeping coattails to follow. He has a strange, irrational theory that if he can just prove to the world how desperately he needs Sherlock Holmes, then perhaps the universe will return him. Perhaps the stars will align and some incredible miracle with deliver Sherlock to where he belongs, across from John in Baker Street's cozy living room.

John sips at his cold tea. Of course, that situation is ridiculous and unreasonable. The truth is far less dramatic.

…

The _truth_ is that he starts going to work again. He takes up his usual clients, asks for overtime on some nights, goes home early on others, and tries not to react when he hears 'poor dear' or 'my condolences' six times a day. The truth is that he starts going on dates again. He lets Sarah set him up with a new woman every weekend, even though it splinters his soul to smile at others while Sherlock's name throbs on the backs of his teeth. The truth is that he packs Sherlock's things into boxes and hides them in the back of his closet, beneath his jumpers and shoes and folded laundry, even though he told Mrs. Hudson he put it all in storage months ago.

The truth is that the world keeps turning. And that is perhaps the most tragic truth of all.

…

On their first date, John smiles and places his hand on hers across the dinner table.

"You're lovely, you know that?" John says over the rim of his wine glass. "Absolutely stunning."

Sarah's friend smiles and takes a sip of her own drink. "Thank you."

"And your lips are perfectly kissable."

"Is that so?" she replies, playfully arching her brow.

John offers a good-natured wink. "I certainly intend on finding out."

"Bit presumptuous, aren't we?" she says, the candlelight twinkling in her eyes. He laughs because that's what he's supposed to do, and orders another glass of wine.

"My sincerest apologies." Draught of red merlot. Coy smile. Laughing eyes.

He ends up kissing her anyway when they're standing outside of her flat at the end of the night and she catches his gaze and trails a hand slowly down his forearm, her red nails snagging on the sleeve of the jumper Sherlock bought him two years ago.

The kiss is warm and sweet, but for some reason it makes him want to cry.

John pulls away too soon and tries to smile. Words spring from his lips like a geyser, desperate to fill the empty space. "I had a good time tonight."

She tilts her head and stares at him, her eyes bright and unfamiliar beneath charcoal lashes and glittery lids. Here they are, two perfect strangers. "Did you?"

Her mouth is lush and red, tastes like mint gum and lipstick, and she's so pretty, all dolled up beneath the lamplight and the pale, evening moon, but when he kisses her again, he feels nothing. He feels hungry, as if his chest is a gaping pit waiting to be filled, as if something deep within him is hollow and aching.

"Of course," he lies, staring at the fleck of loose glitter stuck to her cheek. She smiles and threads her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Wanna come upstairs?"

"Of course," he says again, because there's no harm in disappearing into a flat he'll never see again with a girl whose name he's already forgotten. Perhaps tonight he'll fall asleep without those pale blue eyes boring into him.

…

Mrs. Hudson still comes over every Wednesday with a plate of biscuits and a few essentials from Tesco, but now, instead of bringing cleaning agents and rubber gloves, she brings over things like shampoo and milk—basic things John either forgets or can't be bothered to purchase.

"Hello, John," she says brightly, stepping over the threshold and entering the dreary, grey sitting room. Mrs. Hudson makes John uneasy these days, because she is a living, breathing piece of his Old life—the one that was mad and wonderful and bursting with color—yet here she is, standing amidst his New life, the one with long days that feel too short and bare shelves scrubbed clean of Sherlock's presence.

In the kitchen, she puts the kettle on and removes two teacups from the cabinet. "So, dear, how have you been?"

It's the same question she always asks, so John sits down, unfolds the London Gazette, and goes on autopilot. "Fine, Mrs. Hudson. And you?"

"Oh, you know me, dear; I'm perfectly content, aside from the hip pain."

"Hm."

As she sets down the plate of biscuits and takes a seat, her eyes linger on John's wrist. John knows that she's looking at the Montblanc Swiss watch glittering above his cuffed sleeve and he knows perfectly well that she's aware of its true owner. After a beat or two passes, she clears her throat and pretends to notice it for the first time.

"I haven't seen that watch before, John."

John makes a noncommittal noise and keeps his attention on the newspaper, even though he already read it this morning and has no desire to deeply scrutinize the results of this week's football game a second time.

When another minute goes by and he doesn't say anything more, Mrs. Hudson presses further. "Is it new, dear? It's quite sharp."

He puts down the newspaper and looks at her from across the table. It's not that he's frustrated with Mrs. Hudson, because he understands why she's hiding an edge of concern beneath her lighthearted tone. However, the look in her eyes—that disheartened pity—makes him want to retch.

"It's Sherlock's," he says bluntly, one hand flattened over the sports section. "I was cleaning out the closet and realized I'd missed something. Figured I might as well try it on."

She nods and pointedly doesn't say anything, a small tight-lipped smile plastered onto her face.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson," John says with a short laugh. When her expression remains, he huffs in exasperation and folds the paper in half. "I mean it; I am."

She just sighs. "John…"

"Really, Mrs. Hudson, there's no need to worry." He forces a smile to prove how Perfectly Fine he is, but it clearly does not come across well, because her eyes only grow sadder.

"John, it's okay to mourn. It's normal." She places her hand over his and gives it a comforting squeeze. "You're not alone in this, dear. We _both_ lost him."

John stares down at their hands for a long time, until the skin tones and the dark brown of the table blur together and become indistinguishable.

"It's just a watch," he says after a moment. His voice sounds as empty as he feels.

Mrs. Hudson sighs mournfully and stands from the table, taking the untouched plate with her. "Dear, you know it's never _just_ anything with him."

…

John's dreams are just shapes of things. Shadows on white planes of skin, smears of color, sharp angles, chlorine-colored eyes.

Long pale hands with fingers that stretch and pose beneath an equally sharp chin, musing, thoughtful, brilliant deductions that spill from behind white teeth and pouty lips; sable curls, snow white collarbones, narrow hips, rosy mouth; the bow of a body, music notes spilling from every crevice, a heart beating strong and full beneath those curved, milk-white ribs and then—

lips curl around his name, whisper _John_ into the darkness and coax an answering _Sherlock,_ and for a moment John feels ten years younger, three years less damaged.

 _Where are you?_

…

Another date. This time it's Italian food with a woman whose name reminded John of an old eighties film when he heard it. She shows up to the restaurant ten minutes early with her little white handbag and a tentative smile.

"John?"

"Pleasure to meet you," he says, taking her hand and pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles. She blushes like a schoolgirl.

"I don't do this often," she says once they're seated, ducking her auburn head and shyly tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Her lips are seashell pink and her eyelids are pale blue. Combined with the delicate peach color of her blouse, she reminds him of a pastel sorbet.

"Neither do I," John lies, offering a disarming grin. She smiles back, and John wonders to himself how the entire world can be so bloody oblivious to the festering pain hiding directly beneath his skin, eating him alive.

John clears his throat.

"So," he says warmly, withholding the ache, unfolding the menu, "what are we in the mood to eat?"

…

There is a very uncomplicated sense of satisfaction that John gets from working hour after hour at the clinic, because when he's there, he's able to diagnose illnesses, patch up wounds, offer good news. He can heal people, and _that_ feels a lot better than pacing the flat for hours in silence, or walking through the tomb of Sherlock's room and wiping away dust with the palms of his hands.

The nurse pops her head into the room. "John, Benjamin and his mother have arrived."

John gives a small 'Ah' and turns away to sift through his drawer for a fresh pair of gloves. "He's the one who bumped his head, yes? Seven years old, possible sutures needed?"

"That's him."

"Excellent, tell them to come right in." _Snap, snap_ go the latex gloves.

She turns away and calls to the patients, "Benjamin, Mrs. Long, you two can come in now, Dr. Watson is ready for you."

Treating children is always especially gratifying, because usually all it takes to turn a sobbing toddler into a smiling angel is a few kind words, a cartoon-themed bandage, and perhaps a lollipop. Of course, in this case, Benjamin might require a bit more than that as his injury is somewhat serious, but even still, the most he'll need is a stitch or two and that's hardly unbearable.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson," a woman's voice cheerfully greets from behind him.

John turns around. "Hello, Mrs. Long, Benjamin, lovely to meet y—"

And then he stops. He doesn't even register what the mother looks like because his focus immediately zeroes in on the little boy with the pale, cherubic face, startlingly clear blue eyes, dark unruly curls, and—and…

"Yes, it's a bit gruesome," Mrs. Long chimes in after waiting a beat for John to finish his thought. She gestures to the slowly-bleeding wound dashed across Benjamin's forehead, then sighs, licks a thumb, and attempts to scrub away some of the dried blood that has trailed down the side of his face. "I didn't want to mess with it too much because I wasn't sure if it needed stitches, so I decided to come straight here. Benji says he's fine and the cut looks shallow, but one can never be too safe, yes?"

Clear blue eyes, parted pink mouth, deathly pale skin the color of cold porcelain.

John remembers a similar-looking wound dripping blood across _Sherlock's_ cheekbones, down the side of his face, pooling in his ear and on the sidewalk, drawing red rivulets over the shocked, half-raised lids of his vacant, empty gaze—

"Mister, are you okay?" Benjamin asks, tilting his head. "You're breathing all funny and your skin looks real white."

His eyes are curious and bright. Is this what Sherlock looked like as a child? Round-cheeked and teeming with inquisitiveness? Quite suddenly, John is struck with the image of a young Sherlock Holmes standing before him, his small brow furrowed indignantly and his lower lip pouted. He can picture the high, childish notes of his voice wrapped around intellectual words far beyond his age. He can picture tiny, chubby hands gripping a pencil and determinedly filling a lab notebook with observations and theories. He can picture bouncy black curls and scraped knees, limbs that have yet to become long and angular and elegant.

Mrs. Long furrows her brow. "I'm sorry, who?"

John blinks several times. "Pardon?"

"You said 'Sherlock'. I'm guessing that is a person?"

John takes a few deep breaths to shake himself out of the daze and forces his trembling mouth into a smile. "Er, apologies. Here, Benjamin, why don't you take a seat?"

…

John's dreams are just blurry memories, played backwards and forwards and all out of order.

He sees Sherlock's palm extended at the lab, waiting expectantly for John's mobile as John crossed the floor with his cane— _click tap click tap—_ his fingers as long and lovely as five individual violin bows. John was always enraptured by the elegance of his hands, the fluid movement of his tendons, the pale knoll of his wrist bone, all moving in unison beneath unblemished, ivory skin.

He smells the pasta at Angelo's, the smoke that clung to his coat whenever Sherlock snuck a few cigarettes during the night and forgot to air out the sitting room, the kettle brewing on the stove, the dash of heady cologne Sherlock dabbed onto each wrist on special occasions, the sweet, oaky smell of rosin from his violin. He hears clips of phrases—

 _I consider myself married to my work._

 _Come along, John, the game is on!_

 _I don't have friends; I've just got one._

But then—

the familiar smell of blood, the feeling of gravel on the palms of his hands, his heart sitting in his chest like a stone

 _This phone call, it's, um... It's my note._

Scattered images of the two of them holding hands and running down a dark alleyway, adrenaline singing in his veins, his fingers clasped with Sherlock's, their panting breaths mingling in the cold night air

 _It's what people do, don't they?_

Sherlock's hand slips away, through the handcuffs, out of John's grip

 _Leave a note?_

clammy skin, a bony wrist, the absence of a pulse.

 _Goodbye, John._

…

Harry calls him sometimes, and on most of those occasions they manage to be civil. However, there are those few perfectly ill-timed conversations that strike both of their nerves and rapidly result in John barking angry things while Harry shouts and swears about everything from their resentment-filled childhood to their parents' divorce.

So when Harry calls him on a stormy Tuesday morning, right after his workday has been cancelled due to holiday and the refrigerator bulb has blown out, John makes himself a cup of tea and prepares for _that_ sort of talk, as the day's events have already set up the perfect recipe for disaster.

"So. How long have you been off the bottle, Hare?" John asks a few minutes into the call. He knows exactly what his tone sounds like—a disapproving brand of ' _I already know the answer, but go ahead and tell me anyway'_ —and he's completely ready for Harry to respond with something sharp and defensive in return. Instead, however, she just sighs.

"Bout two months now. Had a slip-up a while back when I went out with some friends—and don't bother with the lecture, I know I shouldn't go pub crawling anymore—but I've been clean since then."

John raises his eyebrows, partially out of surprise that she just admitted to a slip-up and partially at the unexpected neutrality of her response. "Well, good for you. Two months is a good start."

"And how have you been, Johnny?"

John forces a short, good-natured chuckle. "You know, hanging in there."

Harry scoffs. "Don't bullshit me, please."

Unsurprisingly, feigning ignorance is far easier than telling the truth. "I don't know what you mean, Hare. I'm fine."

Harry waits a beat and then changes tactics. "I called Mrs. Hudson last week and she says you've been going out quite a bit lately."

"Yes."

"With women," Harry adds.

"Yes."

"A _lot_ of them, apparently."

John gives an irritated sigh. "What are you trying to say? I figured you'd be happy that I'm not 'turning myself into a hermit' anymore."

"Right, but now you're hopping into bed with every bird on the block, and that isn't healthy either."

John gives a short, sharp laugh of disbelief. "Really, Harry? Because last I checked, that's exactly what you did when Clara left."

"Johnny, I'm not trying to judge you, okay? I'm just saying, I know what it's like to try to bury your feelings by sleeping around. And I'm here to tell you that there's no real peace to be found in it. If anything, it just makes everything worse."

"I'm not trying to bury any feelings, Harry. He's gone and I've accepted it. He was my best friend and my flat mate, but that's it. That's…that's all we were to each other."

"But is that all you wanted from him, Johnny?" Harry asks after a meaningful pause. "You didn't want more? Perhaps something _deeper_ than friendship?"

It's a pathetic phrase and he knows that, but he says it anyway with the weariness and lack of conviction of a man who has muttered the same excuse for far too long. "I'm not gay."

"John," Harry says flatly, "if you really think that's a legitimate response to anything I've said, then please, hang up now and reevaluate the way you view the world. Because that is _irrelevant_. You can love Sherlock and not be gay. That you would even feel the need to clarify that to me of all people is ridiculous and, frankly, a bit insulting."

 _You can love Sherlock and not be gay._ A delirious, trembling, achey feeling bubbles up in his throat and spills from his lips in a loud burst. "I can't," he says, his voice all twisted up with tears and rising hysterics. "I can't, Harry. Don't you get it? I can't love him. He's _gone._ "

"Johnny…"

"Why doesn't anyone understand that? Why does everyone keep trying to remind me of him? Am I not allowed to live my life without thinking about him every sodding second?" Distantly, John is aware of how he sounds—desperate, manic, shattered—but he can't summon the willpower to regain composure.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," he chokes out, wiping a tear from his eye. He stares at the bead of moisture collected on his thumb and allows the full force of his grief collapse over him in waves. "I don't know what to _do_."

"It's okay," Harry's voice says from far away. John barely registers her presence.

"Harry, I—can't. I can't love him. It doesn't matter anymore." Burning trails of tears make their way down John's face and disappear into the wooly collar of his jumper. "I could have said something when he was here, I could've t-told him how I felt, but I didn't. I was weak. I was scared…I was—I was blind."

"Johnny…"

"It's too late." His voice is softer now, a defeated, trembling exhale. He wilts back into his chair and pliantly succumbs to the ache throbbing in his chest. "It's too _late_."

…

John's dreams are confusing, jagged shards of sensations too fleeting to fully grasp. They are the sharply creased edge of Sherlock's shirt collar, the texture of his Belstaff coat between John's fingers, the smell of the bakery below the flat, the warmth of Sherlock's hands after he'd held a cup of fresh tea, the high, sweet notes that he drew from his violin every Sunday morning before the sitting room window, and the wrinkles around his eyes when he indulged in a rare smile.

John clings to each feeling, tries to engulf himself in them and curl his back to the rest of the world, because this is, as he is slowly coming to terms with, the last of Sherlock Holmes that he will ever have.

…

The setting is the same—modest restaurant with a romantic ambiance—but this woman is different. Whereas his previous dates wore floral blouses and flirtatious smiles, _Bernadette_ wears a simple black dress and a cool, unruffled expression. Her heels are as sharp as knives and every aspect of her carefully made-up face seems to say ' _I know exactly what I want and I'm here to get it'_. There's also something about her that strikes John as quite familiar.

"Bernadette," John says warmly, rising from his chair. "I'm Jo—"

"I'm aware," She says succinctly, with a businesslike smile. She sits down before he has the chance to come over and pull out the chair for her, and then folds her impeccably manicured hands atop the table.

"Ah, right to it, then," John says, offering a good-natured chuckle to hide his discomfort. He clears his throat. "Well, anyway, you look dashing."

The woman's eyes twinkle knowingly. Leisurely, she takes a sip of wine. "Yes, you've always seemed to think that about me."

John frowns, now thoroughly thrown off. "Always? We've just met."

"My real name is not Bernadette, John Watson." She pauses and smirks. "Nor is it Anthea, but I'm sure you're much more fond of that particular alias."

Immediately, his heart jumps into overdrive. Anything from his past — specifically, anything from his past with _Sherlock_ — is enough to make his heart soar and simultaneously plummet in dread. "What do you want?" he asks hoarsely, his hands deathly still on the tabletop.

"I'm surprised you didn't recognize me sooner, it's only been a few years," she continues, examining her nails. She sighs. "Well, either way, I'm merely here to deliver a message. I'm sure you'll be quite pleased once you read it."

John blinks. "Read it? What do you—"

"Here you are, John," she says, placing a small piece of paper before him. "Examine it at your leisure and feel free to contact the number on the back once you're willing to talk about the future."

"The future?"

"Mm, yes. Did I stutter?" She smiles and rises from the table. "So sorry to leave you without a dining companion this evening, but I'm sure the news I have just delivered will make up for any feelings of disappointment. Have a good night, John Watson."

John blinks several times, then watches in mute shock as Anthea turns on her heel and leaves, her slim hips swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Feeling quite numb, John reaches for the item she left behind and gingerly examines it with shaking hands.

On the back of a crisp square of parchment in familiar, spidery scrawl, reads the simple phrase:

 _I'm back._

 _SH_

…

When he gets home, he throws up in the sink. After that, he paces the kitchen for twenty minutes, trying and failing to conjure a single, clear thought, before finally giving in and collapsing onto his chair in the sitting room, his entire body trembling.

I'm back. I'm back. I'm back.

He's dreamt about this. Sherlock has come back to him in a thousand different ways, said a thousand different things, so he _should_ theoretically be prepared for anything, but right now, with this earth shattering message burning a hole in his pocket, he doesn't know what to do. How can he possibly find a way to say everything he's been holding onto for nearly half a decade? How can he express that he loves Sherlock so deeply, so fundamentally, that it feels as though they are natural extensions of each other? How can he explain that Sherlock is the only human being who has made his heart race and adrenaline soar while still providing a warm lull of comfort and safety? How can he possibly list out every single beautiful, fascinating, incredible thing that has caused John to fall so irrevocably in love with him?

On the other hand, who's to say this is even real? Admittedly, it would be strange, unnecessary, and incredibly morbid for Anthea—and therefore Mycroft—to play with his feelings like this, so it's exceptionally unlikely that this is a lie. But then, how can this be the _truth_? After watching Sherlock fall off the edge of that building, after attending his funeral, after mourning him for all these years, how can he still be alive? Isn't that something too incredible and unrealistic to even dare to hope for?

As Anthea promised, there is a string of numbers on the back of the paper. The ink blurs before John's eyes, smudged by brimming tears and the desperate, aching hope blooming in his chest.

With a deep breath and his mouth overflowing with words, John dials the number.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

"John?"

The world stills and then tilts on its axis. John's heart stutters in his chest and his hands become so slack that he nearly drops the phone. It takes a minute, but when he finally speaks, he says the word with three years worth of hope, relief, and bone-crushing love.

" _Sherlock."_

* * *

 **A/N: First of all, I'd like to apologize for being so behind on all of my stories. I have so much love and appreciation for all of those who have been leaving encouraging comments on my work for the past few months in spite of the infrequent updates, because it just shows how much you respect both me and my work.**

 **I know some of you might be wondering why I've pretty much dropped off the face of the earth lately —fan fiction-wise — so here's the abridged version:**

 **A while back, I got into a really bad car accident which resulted in an orbital fracture, a torn eyelid, and a cracked eye socket. In the ensuring weeks, I visited multiple doctors and clinics, was advised against surgery, misdiagnosed, redirected to a different hospital, before I finally found myself at Stanford to get a metal plate put underneath my right eye. The side affects of my injury included double vision, blurry vision, migraines, bleeding from the mouth, and nausea. As I'm sure you can all understand, this made it incredibly difficult to sit down and write for several hours at a time. As all of that was gradually healing, school began, and life at UCLA left me with little to no free time to sit and write. Now that Winter quarter is in full swing and I'll be starting my job soon, my life is going to remain extremely busy and chaotic, BUT I would like to continue posting on here because I miss my readers, this ship, this fandom, and the act of writing in general, so whenever I have a moment I'll work on some new stories/chapters for you all :)**

 **…**

 **Question: How many of you believe that season 4 was just an elaborate hoax? Will there be another episode to set things straight? Based on how wildly OOC and offbeat it was, I assume there will be, but part of me thinks that might just be blind hope. Let me know what you think, everyone! Oh, and let me know if you liked the story, as well :)**

 **Much love! See you all soon 3**


End file.
